


FF #29: Starling Holiday

by smoakmonster



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, F/M, Flash Fic, Olicity Flash Fic, Roman Holiday AU, olicity - Freeform, olicity au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 13:04:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4020868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoakmonster/pseuds/smoakmonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>European Princess Felicity takes off one night during her holiday in Starling City. When a sedative she took from her doctor kicks in, however, she falls asleep on a park bench and is found by an American reporter, Oliver Queen, who takes her back to his apartment for safety. Once Oliver realizes who Felicity is, he seeks to get an exclusive interview with her. But romance grows, changing everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	FF #29: Starling Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the flash fic prompt: Up Close And Personal. 
> 
> My mind automatically went “Roman Holiday,” and to be honest, I wish I had more time to devote to this in all the detail it deserves. As it is, I ended up falling down the AU rabbit hole and took more than an hour to finish this story. Hope you can forgive me for going slightly over the time limit here, and I hope this tale is enjoyable. (Sidenote: Gregory Peck and Stephen Amell could have a serious contest over the art of eyebrow raising.)

Intrepid reporter Oliver Queen is no babysitter. He hasn’t spent five years in press hell, banished to the only news station that would take him in the continental U.S., only to be stuck chaperoning reckless young women who decide to take naps on public benches during inconvenient evening hours.

“Who are you?” he practically growls at the petite blonde who's latched herself onto his body like a leech, like a lost child finding a parent.

“Happy.” She hiccups. “Oh, excuuuse me. I’m happy. Do you know that in latin that’s what my name means? Happiness? My mom said that’s what she and my faaaaather decided to name me because it was the hap— _hiccup_ —happiest day of her life. Though— _hiccup_ —I don’t see how nine hours of labor and an impromptu c-section could make _anybody_ happy.”

On and on she babbles, each word becoming more incoherent than the previous. And yet, he gets no whiff of alcohol. At this point, Oliver is slightly more amused than annoyed, so by the time she’s finally silent again, he decides he’s going to help her— _damn_ his bothersome chivalry—if for no other reason than to get this poor girl off the streets before someone far worse than him stumbles upon her. So even as she mumbles her protests and weakly swats at his chest, Oliver scoops her elegant body up into his arms and carries her back to his apartment.

She settles down soon enough, laying her head against his chest. He listens to her gentle inhales and exhales, breathing in her pleasing aroma, a mixture of strawberry shampoo and expensive perfume.

“Hmm. Are you happy?” she asks dreamily, using her index finger to trace invisible patterns along the scruff lining his jaw.

He tilts his head to break the contact. When he merely grunts, she giggles much more enthusiastically than his minimal response merits. “You’re funny is what you are, mister. Oh, and strong. You have very nice arms. Has anyone ever told you you have nice arms?”

He rolls his eyes, shifting her weight to keep her steady. With every sentence, he grows increasingly more conflicted, torn between uncontrollable hilarity and frustration. He wants her to be quiet. He doesn’t want her to be quiet. He hates her laugh. He loves her laugh. He’s exhausted. He’s surprisingly enjoying the sensation of her weight pressed against his torso.

But there is one truth Oliver knows with strange clarity: he feels protective of this stranger, on a level that simultaneously delights and terrifies him.

When they arrive back to his place, Oliver haphazardly plops her onto his bed like the miscreant that she is. She stretches along the covers, ruining his halfmade bed. “May I have a glass of red wine?” she yawns drowsily, wrapping her entire body around one of his pillows.

Oliver just shakes his head as he sheds his jacket. When he turns back to her, he stills, raising a suspicious eyebrow. An unsettling knot forms in his gut. The girl looks familiar. Suddenly, his heart races with trepidation as recognition dawns on him. He’s practically shaking as he pulls up the latest news feed on his phone. And there, like a swift arrow to the target, he feels the wind get knocked out of him.

It’s _her_.

_Princess Felicity Spends Holiday Week In Starling City_

_European Princess Cancels Press Conference Due To Health Issues_

He stumbles back into the wall, his eyes rapidly jumping up and down between the photo on his phone and the woman lying in his bed. He’s pretty sure he’s gone into a panic attack, except intrepid reporter Oliver Queen doesn’t get panic attacks.

Eventually, the fluttering of his heart settles down back to an even pace, and a sudden piece of insight drops from the heavens.

This is it. His blessing in disguise. His chance to finally make a name for himself and earn that Pulitzer. He’s going to get an exclusive interview with Princess Felicity, up close and personal. No cameras. No preparation. Just one reporter meeting one very royal, very beautiful, and currently very sleeping young woman face-to-face.

He calls his best friend Tommy, who is, conveniently, a photographer to “assist” with his current predicament.

In the morning, he’s already up making breakfast when she awakes. He got up early to attempt to straighten his shabby little apartment. He’s suddenly regretting opting out of last month’s assignment for the sake of a fun weekend with Tommy. He could’ve used that money to make this place more presentable, more _livable_.

But the moment her crystal blue eyes open, they don’t fixate on the disorganized room or the uncomfortable bed or the fact that she’s wearing his pajamas and they’re at least five sizes too big for her. No, her gaze locks on him. And he stares back with the same urgency, trying to calm the wheels of terror and confusion and curiosity he recognizes spinning behind her eyes.

She’s polite and modest and severely guarded—so unlike the woman of last night—and they shake hands and exchange pleasantries. And against her better judgment, he convinces her to spend the day with him.

Tommy joins them shortly, and the three of them go on long walks around the city. They have lunch at Big Belly Burger, and he notices Tommy manages to capture a few unsuspecting pictures while she’s chowing down on a piece of meat and stuffing french fries into her pretty little mouth with bizarre grace. Oliver shows her all of his favorite city sites, because he’s convinced himself that’s what a princess deserves to see. He just instinctively knows that eating ice cream and riding on the back of his motorcycle with him through the streets would be enjoyable to her. (Naturally, this latter decision has _nothing_ to do with the fact that she's forced to wrap her lovely arms around his waist in the process.)

He decides he loves her laugh after all.

Somewhere between breakfast and lunch, he’s learned more about her than he ever planned on asking. She offers more than his curiosity merits. She’s more playful and endearing than any of the articles he’s read paint her to be. Princess Felicity is _funny_. She has ambition. She’s fiercely independent, yet steadfastly loyal to her father. While he never asks her anything directly political, and she goes out of her way to conceal her identity through contemplative, veiled remarks, he’s already getting a solid sense of the kind of person she is. She is more than a beautiful face in fashion magazines or at charity auctions. She’s _real_. Something about being around her feels natural and whole and _right_. Felicity tells him about her fear of kangaroos and heights, and he greatly enjoys watching the flush creep across her cheeks. She tells him that she’s allergic to peanuts. She tells him obscure and funny tales that sound so charmingly human, you would never believe she’s a princess.

And somewhere by mid-afternoon, unbeknownst to him, Oliver’s mission has changed. They’ve chatted for hours, but Oliver has yet to write anything down. Not even a scribble. Because everything she’s sharing with him feels sacred now, like it’s meant for his ears only, like he’s suddenly her confidant and newest best friend.

If she wasn’t a princess and he wasn’t a reporter, he’d swear this was the best first date of his life.

Just as quickly as that dangerous notion enters his mind, he shakes his head, tossing it aside. Except it never really leaves. That thought _lingers_ on the outer recesses of his mind, impacting his every action towards her thereafter.

That evening, Oliver takes her to Verdant to have a few drinks and listen to music. They’re sitting on stools watching other couples move along the dance floor, when she abruptly turns her playful, pleading eyes on him.

He raises a firm eyebrow, reading her thoughts. “I don’t dance.”

But Felicity just rolls her eyes, dragging him straight to the middle of the tile. “Just follow my lead, Oliver.” And the way she gently, assuredly utters his name triggers something akin to a riptide inside his chest.

Pretty soon, he’s far too mesmerized to care who watches his mistakes. He just relishes every plane of skin he gets to touch. He watches her the whole time, as little by little her nose gets closer to his shoulder, her breathing tickling his neck. A few more sways, and the space between them vanishes. She leans wholeheartedly into his embrace, and he can feel his own pulse betraying him. How strange that just this morning carrying her through the city meant very little to him, and now just the mere touching of fingertips sends a strange series of sparks along his arm.

They manage to evade the police and get across the river and back to his apartment unnoticed. His own heartbeats come faster, harder, as the inevitable moment of separation draws closer; and just like the rest of the day, it’s another secret they both share but never mention.

Felicity changes back into her clothes from the evening before—which he had the good sense to clean. She looks so unchanged, and yet completely altered altogether. She looks years younger and yet decades wiser. She wrings her fingers, biting her lip anxiously, surveying his entire apartment with a meticulous, cataloging eye, looking everywhere but at him directly.

“Will you take me one more place tonight?” she whispers.

He nods severely, leading her out to his bike.

They are silent on the slow drive through the city, the only sound being the roar of the engine. When they reach the corner just beyond the consulate, she tells him to stop by placing her hand on his forearm. Reluctantly, he obeys.

The bike drifts to a halt. And so does his heart.

She lingers, her thin, cold fingers still threaded in between his large, calloused ones. Even her neon nailpolish stands out in the dark. It’s fitting, in a way, because she stands out like a spotlight wherever she goes, without even trying. He knows his worn and weary hands are not fit to touch her soft, silk ones. But then he pauses, frowning when his thumb grazes over that one small callous on her ring finger. How did she acquire that? There are rumors that the princess is a genius, a hacker, and he suspects that is true, given his brief encounter with her today. Though he’ll never know for sure.

She’s the first to let go, tugging ever so gently at his hand, and he releases her instantly. He can deny her nothing. He twists in his seat, feeling her pull, willing him to look back at her; but he delays even that, because he knows what’s coming, and he doesn’t want to say goodbye.

When he meets her eyes, he sees his own desperation mirrored in her watery expression. One eternal tense heartbeat passes, and then she’s suddenly thrown her arms around his side and pressing her head into the crook of his neck. What else can he do but hold her, cling to her for as long as she will allow him? His scruff nuzzles her cheek, and he presses small kisses to where her hairline meets her forehead.

She’s starting to pull back, when his hand cups the delicate crevice on the back of her head, patiently drawing her in. He waits for her to push him away, and when she doesn’t, he kisses her softly. But she stuns him again by opening her mouth to his, kissing him back with an unmatched fervor.

Oliver has no idea how long they spend tangled together like that. All he knows is the kiss is over too soon. She’s broken away from him, gasping in his face, and he has to let her go. In one last effort of protest, Oliver rests his forehead against hers.

And then, as a final memento of torture, one last gift, she kisses his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispers.

“For what?”

“Proving me right. Not all reporters have a hidden agenda.”

His eyes widen with shock as she slowly pulls back. He desperately searches her face, but finds no trace of judgment in her tone, no indignation behind those warm, inviting eyes he swears he would gladly drown in and yet never suffocate.

“How long have you known?” he says gravely.

She smiles briefly. “Does it matter? How long have you known about me?”

He releases one of his classically deep sighs, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Still, she lingers, biting her lower lip, immediately drawing his attention to that perfect shade of pink he’s just had the privilege of brushing with his own lips. He swallows, realizing that’s the first and last time he’ll ever get to kiss her senseless. One kiss will hardly be enough to last a lifetime.

Suddenly, she’s launching into one of her desperate babbles. “I-I promise, even though...we’re likely never to see each other again, I’ll ask my father about making sure you’re set up well. One phone call, and he can place you anywhere in the world you want to go—”

“Hey,” he stops her rapid lip movement with his index finger and immediately has to fight urge to rub the alluring texture. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be just fine.”

“Promise me?”

Despite everything, he feels his lips twitching. “Promise.”

She turns away, as he helps her climb off the motorcycle, and then she pauses one last time for him. “I’m so...so happy to have met you, Mr. Queen.”

He offers her as real a grin as he can under the circumstances, the spark not quite reaching his eyes, and she notices. Already, she knows him well. _Too late_ , he thinks. She knows him too well, too late.

“What about you?”

He’s startled by her question, and he hesitates in responding—not because he doesn’t know the answer he will give, but because he wants to delay her departure just a precious few seconds longer.

Finally, he tells her. And for the first time in five years, Oliver Queen speaks the truth without a byline or a price tag. “This will sound strange, but yes, I am happy.”

He’s rewarded with a beam more brilliant than he deserves. “As you should be. You deserve happiness, same as anybody else.” He pretends not to notice the way her voice cracks at the end.

He has barely registered the significance of her words, before a helmet is stuffed into his hands, waking him out of his trance. He watches her walk away in agony, around the corner and out of his life forever. In less than 24 hours, intrepid reporter Oliver Queen has finally experienced his Pulitzer-worthy story. And he never publishes it.


End file.
